


Just a Fairy Tale

by apacketofseeds



Category: Monty Python RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Drabble Sequence, First Kiss, M/M, POV Multiple, POV Outsider, Public Display of Affection, Triple Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-10
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26389456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apacketofseeds/pseuds/apacketofseeds
Summary: The Pythons visit a bar while filming Fliegender Zirkus.
Relationships: John Cleese/Michael Palin
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Just a Fairy Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the filming of Fliegender Zirkus's first episode (1971) in Bavaria. 
> 
> Title is from Eric's line at the end of the Hearing Aid sketch: "You should see them when they've had a couple of drinks! Goodnight, folks. Just a fairy tale."

The Bavarian nightlife was more a night _death_. Filming for Fliegender Zirkus took them to sleepy villages and cosmopolitan cities, yet all they’d found in Füssen was a single bar—a basement serving beer in glasses bigger than their heads—and even past midnight, there was a queue to get in.

It had been Terry G’s idea to sample local culture, if only for some fresh air and leaving their piss-poor German practice back at the hotel. Eric’s head swam with words he didn’t understand yet could pronounce, and waiting in the winding queue, he picked out the odd one amongst the chatter of those queuing ahead of them.

An advantage about filming in Germany was not being recognised, being just another group of guys huddled in the windy street looking to get drunk. A disadvantage was… not being recognised. In London, they never queued; they were ushered inside any establishment and taken to its best table, free drinks all night.

That kind of service would be perfect right about now, Eric thought, rubbing his arms. He’d much rather be inside enjoying the live music in the warm than out here, feeling the bass bleed up through freezing stone into his heels. He wanted to complain, though that’d been their whole evening.

Michael was usually up for complaining about cold weather. Eric peered over Graham’s shoulder—through his cloud of tobacco smoke—to see if Michael’s silence was due to someone lending him their coat. Terry made a face, stepping aside to reveal John leant against the wall, Michael pressed to his chest, head tucked under his chin. John was rubbing Michael’s shoulders gently, casually, and even Eric had to admit, John’s embrace looked rather cosy.

Sharing a knowing look with Terry, Eric complained to Graham about the cold instead.

* * *

Terry reached for his gargantuan beer, grateful for John’s better German when ordering from the busty waitress. Graham pointed out that over here, waitresses were known as “dirndl girls” which sounded wonderful in a British accent.

They’d bagged a booth big enough for them all to squeeze into. Its table was a large oak oval littered with beer mats, cup rings eating into the varnish. Terry pocketed the most interesting looking mat as a souvenir or piece of papery paraphernalia for a possible cartoon.

The band was loud, but not so loud he couldn’t hear the other Terry arguing with Graham about how he absolutely could smuggle his beer stein out in his coat without notice, Eric pointing out that he had to drink the damn thing first.

Terry couldn’t hear John or Michael. They were sat on the opposite side of the booth’s bench, Michael speaking into John’s ear, grinning his goofy grin. They’d been in each other’s pockets all evening, devising a sketch probably, building bits atop bits, perfecting it before sharing with the others. Though, from his side of the booth, Terry spotted something the others wouldn’t.

John’s arm was around Michael, hidden beneath his jacket. His hand braced Michael’s waist, thumb stroking a slow up and down along his shirt’s seam. It was an oddly intimate touch, even for two who were always playfighting, Michael sprawling across John, poking him or mussing his hair to rile him up.

“I can!” Terry squealed, falling for Graham’s teasing about the supposed stein smuggling. “I can and I will!”

Withdrawing his pipe, Graham did something no Python got away with: giving Terry J a dare.

Eric slammed a hand on the table. “Ten marks says you get caught.”

Oh, Terry wasn’t losing out on this. “Twenty says he doesn’t.”

* * *

There weren’t many things to climb in Füssen. No knee-high brick walls at the ends of front gardens, sturdy streetlights, or flat-topped bins lining the pavements. Instead: cobbles, walls of painted plaster and wood beam, the odd bush growing beneath an ancient archway.

Terry found something to clamber up: a street fountain with a carved stone pillar in its centre, Füssen’s coat of arms atop it. It was from that pillar he announced his victory. He was not only the proud owner of one traditional beer stein—he held it up like the Holy Grail—but his wallet would soon be fifty deutschmarks heavier.

Those who’d bet against him dragged their feet past the fountain defeatedly, sprinting when an old German woman threw her shutters open and yelled at them. Terry caught up in a fit of giggles, tripping on a cobble and almost losing his stein in the process.

The sudden, loud call of nature had Terry considering whether it was worth trying to pickpocket their hotel key from Graham and running ahead, but a narrow alley off the street called to him even louder. He hurried down it, placing the stein on a wall before unzipping and relieving himself.

“John, don’t.” Michael’s voice. He and John had brought up the rear the whole walk back, and neither knew Terry was within earshot.

“Who’ll see?” John replied.

Michael chuckled softly. “You’re drunk.”

“I am not.”

Terry peered around the wall and found himself agreeing with John. It took a lot to get John drunk.

“Why do you want to?” Michael asked, bashful.

“Do I need a reason?”

“S’pose not.”

They linked hands, and Terry smiled. Following them back at a respectful distance, he realised when he got to the hotel that he’d left the stein on the wall.

Shit.

* * *

Graham wouldn’t call himself a mother hen, but he was always the one who made sure everyone was present and correct after a night out. Being abroad made him all the more concerned, so it felt good to lock the door of their suite with everyone inside.

Terry G had gone straight to his room to a chorus of familiar jibes about how yanks couldn’t hold their beer. The others were in the main room, perched amongst half-empty beer bottles and half-filled ashtrays from before they went out.

Terry and Eric were arguing about the dare—Terry never promised to bring the stein back with him, he just needed to get it off the premises.

Michael and John… Oh.

Graham relit his pipe and tried not to stare.

Michael’s legs were swung over John’s lap, arms circling his shoulders while they mumbled to each other. They’d been like this all evening, though perhaps not as brazenly. It wasn’t uncommon that they got wrapped up in conversation, but Graham knew something the others didn’t, something John confided in him in absolute confidence, and something Graham never thought would come to anything. Until it was: John leaning in and kissing Michael’s mouth.

Interrupting the argument, Graham announced that he desperately wanted to show Terry and Eric something in the suite’s kitchenette. He hurried them toward it, but they weren’t fooled. They stopped mid-bicker, staring as dumbstruck as Graham felt, at Michael and John locked in a passionate kiss.

“Uh, what did you want to show us?” Terry asked.

Eric stayed put, so Graham dragged him out by his sleeve.

In the kitchen, Graham lay his pipe on the countertop seriously. Just what was he supposed to say?

“It’s about time,” Terry said, filling a glass at the tap.

Graham could only agree.


End file.
